


Interstellar Propriety

by bliumchik



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:58:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2806883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bliumchik/pseuds/bliumchik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not an aliens-made-them-do-it story.</p><p>(thanks heaps to NightMistress for the beta!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interstellar Propriety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vass/gifts).



“Breq!” hissed Seivarden, skin flushing almost imperceptibly purple. “They want to… Aatr’s tits, I knew we were going among savages, but…” 

I raised an eyebrow. “You were among savages for quite a few years before I found you.”

“Breq.” Ship sent me Seivarden’s readings – more bafflement than actual offence, but a definite panic. 

“Lieutenant,” I said, in the tone that always made her straighten her spine and raise her chin. “Athoek Station needs this mineral supply. Are you able to comply with local custom or do I need to send you back to the ship and bring Tisarwat down here?” 

Prepared for a dressing-down, this last took Seivarden by surprise and produced an actual snort. Her anxiety levels decreased slightly. “You wouldn’t,” she said. “That would be… cruel.” 

I gestured acknowledgement and turned my attention back to our hosts, who had been patiently awaiting a response. The Shradi had traded with Athoek before the annexation (when, of course, the allocation of satellite repair supplies within Radchaai space became a much more efficient source), so we had brought a Xhai translator, Haith (technically a linguistic historian), who had wisely refrained from telling the Shradi representatives what we were arguing about. 

Now I said to Haith, “Please convey again my congratulations on the royal wedding and request a full account of our obligations as off-world guests. We will of course be happy to celebrate with our gracious hosts.” 

I turned back to the person who had been introduced to me as the Minister for Strangers and kept a neutral, pleasant expression on my face as Haith relayed my words, occasionally hesitating and consulting one of the many outdated dictionaries on her hand-held. The Minister for Strangers was tall but narrow, long-limbed, and arrayed in multi-layered flowing robes in shades of orange. She rested her sharp chin on one bare hand, listening, while the other operated a small, intricate hand-fan. I had noticed, during the welcoming procession, that the higher-ranked Shradi nobles and bureaucrats had one or more servants to do this for them. There also appeared to have been a kind of headdress arms race among the wealthy, in comparison to which the Minister’s jewelled turban was positively mundane. From this, as well as the hurried appearance of the furnishings in the palace wing in which our meeting was being held, I concluded that the office had declined in prestige since Athoek had been cut off by the Radchaai invasion. The other trading partners in the region had limited spacefaring ability and rarely visited, I surmised, and most of the Strangers this person, and her predecessor, and her predecessor’s predecessor had encountered had been non-Shradi fellow planet-dwellers, whom Athoeki historical documents had described as largely nomadic and non-industrialised, with the exception of the highly insular Leth in the other hemisphere. 

When we finished exchanging pleasantries and returned to the quarters that had been provided for us (Haith had been offered, and eagerly accepted, scholars’ quarters, where she was no doubt busy pumping Shradi linguists for information), Seivarden removed her jacket, collapsed onto a small divan and groaned melodramatically. 

“I know ancillaries never had the same kind of privacy, Breq, but surely even for you, this is too much.” 

“I have encountered twelve separate cultures which painted the hands for ceremonial purposes,” I remarked. “Also two in which it was simply a form of personal artistic expression.” 

Seivarden looked scandalised. Amaat Seven, who had quietly swooped in to pick up the jacket and hang it neatly, showed an intense spike of amusement, but remained outwardly impassive. 

“If it’s too much, I can call for volunteers from the crew-” 

Indignation, a little self-consciously suppressed, habitual contempt, and Seivarden sat up straight. “I can do it.” 

“Very well,” I said. “Then you should get some sleep.” 

* 

At dawn we were awoken by the chiming of delicate bells under our windows, and breakfasted upon a selection of fruit and nuts that had evidently been delivered to Kalr Five in the night by some cog in the huge, ceaseless wedding preparation machine. I imagined dozens, hundreds of cooks and gardeners and tailors working in shifts, as though the palace were a huge ship preparing for a journey. 

After breakfast, a servant came to escort us to the baths. Kalr Five and Amaat Seven had been provided with white robes to dress us in for this occasion. The robes, of course, did not come with gloves, and Seivarden was already unconsciously crossing her arms. I hoped the baths would relax her – it was the Seivarden of aristocratic ease, irritating as she sometimes was, that I needed for this mission, not the Seivarden of sullen degradation. That Seivarden had perhaps been necessary, but not particularly pleasant for either of us. Now the Shradi were judging our worth as trading partners, and that meant we were conforming to _their_ notion of civilisation – and we needed to do it in style. 

The baths turned out to be segregated in some manner related to local genders, as we discovered when different servants whisked Seivarden and myself into separate rooms. From there on, thankfully, the apparently universal nature of ritual cleanliness took over, and I was able to follow the instructional hand gestures of the servants effectively and even enjoy the humid, fragrant atmosphere. Ship periodically sent me reassuring snapshots of Seivarden not panicking, which helped. The other occupants of the bath, members of the royal household who were not in the wedding party itself, did not seem to mind my humming under my breath. 

Suitably cleansed and perfumed, I emerged into a dressing room where Kalr Five waited, having been given a crash-course in the arrangement of Shradi formal-wear. Finally, wrapped in three layers of bright yellow cloth in different textures and festooned with various ribbons and sashes, I was reunited with a similarly arrayed Seivarden – bare hands tucked out of sight in her voluminous sleeves.

“I should feel honoured they’ve dressed us in the colours of honoured guests,” she remarked wryly. “But instead I just feel like a gaudy lamp.” 

“In the Ahre Confederacy,” I said, with great solemnity. “The colour yellow is reserved for small children and performers in the travelling theatre.”

Seivarden snorted. “And which one are we today?” 

“Let’s find out,” I said. 

* 

The hand markings were applied by an artist in a sleeveless, deep rose smock – and long gloves, for which I was thankful on Seivarden’s behalf. Her long, straight hair was bound in segments by red bands, and she gestured us into the room impatiently, without looking at us – evidently her services were in high demand. I wondered how many such artists were employed for these occasions. Presumably the wedding party was served separately. 

I sat in the chair she pointed to and presented my hands. Seivarden, flushing slightly, took up a post on my far side, facing away. I watched as the artist uncorked a small bottle of dark blue liquid. The scent that drifted from the open bottle was earthy and tart. The artist dipped her brush into it and began to trace delicate curlicues across my palm. I noticed Seivarden steadying her breathing – beginning a meditation pattern Medic had taught her recently. Good – she needed the practice. My own mind wandered as I became accustomed to the tickle of the brush, and I checked in on _Mercy of Kalr_ , steady in orbit above us. Lieutenant Ekalu on the bridge, watching the twin moons of this planet spin around each other. Lieutenant Tisarwat at her shift’s dinner, asking questions about the home planet of one of her Bos. Medic checking her inventory, singing quietly to herself. Amaat decade doing the same a little louder in the halls, _I saw the sun set behind the peach tree_ , no longer self-conscious about it. 

_All is well_ , said Mercy of Kalr in my ear. 

“Hm,” said the artist, replacing her brush in its water bowl and leaning back to stretch her fingers. “Chu,” she added, waving me out of the chair. I stood and swapped places with Seivarden, doing her the courtesy of adopting the same position she had, so I wasn’t directly watching her. Ship was tracking her breathing, anyway – it wasn’t necessary. Instead I examined the markings on my hands, which had dried swiftly with the aid of a small hand-fan the artist had periodically fluttered at me. The pattern was a little like the branches of a hedge, if a hedge perhaps grew leaves like fish scales. It was quite aesthetically pleasing. Seivarden’s adrenaline levels were just on the edge of abnormal – she was lengthening her breaths diligently. _You’ll have a good story to tell Ekalu later_ , I sent, silently, and she mentally swatted at me. At last, the artist indicated that she was done, and by some means signalled the servants who had escorted us here to return and guide us to the temple. 

In the long, cool marble hallway, I glanced at Seivarden and asked, “Tolerable?” 

She smirked and rolled her eyes at me. “It’s no falling off a bridge.”

“No,” I acknowledged. “But thank you.” 

* 

As high-status foreigners, our place was with the unrelated aristocracy, lining the part of the wedding parade route nearest the temple. We were shaded by the wide fronds of some sort of fruit tree and fanned by several immaculately-dressed servants, although I thought I could feel a steadier breeze and managed to spot a carefully-concealed cooling unit or two. Human servants were evidently an outward sign of prestige. This hadn’t been mentioned in Athoeki historical documents, but I had seen it before on planets with a labour shortage – this one must have begun at some point in the last 500 years. I wondered what had precipitated it, and what the Shradi leadership would have thought of ancillaries. 

We had had the misfortune to make contact mere days before the ceremony, and one or two nobles had that disgruntled look about them that suggested they might have been abruptly bumped down a few spots in the pecking order to fit us in. Further down the route were wealthy merchants and political players, and then the common people, who might have to wait several hours in the scorching heat for the wedding party to reach them. Still, I rather wished to be closer to them – I could hear the distant strains of singing from that direction, whereas the nobility were all maintaining a stoic silence. 

But soon the temple doors opened, and chanting priests led forth the royal couple. They were dressed in robes of deepest blue, with white ribbons and sashes. One wore her hair in a towering construction set with jewels, and the other a simple braid down her back, with a silver circlet on her forehead. This was our cue – as everyone around us raised their hands, palms up, I glanced over at Seivarden. _Don’t look at me or I’ll burst out laughing_ , she sent, silently. Until then, I hadn’t been entirely sure I’d done the right thing. We could, after all, have commandeered and repurposed mining equipment and searched for local asteroid belts. But to make contact, receive a prestigious invitation and then back out would have made relations with the Shradi nigh-impossible for generations to come. Still, as far as I had pushed Seivarden at the start of our acquaintance, I was keenly aware that alienating her now that we’d committed to serving aboard _Mercy of Kalr_ together would have far greater consequences.

 _That would be highly improper_ , I returned, and, humming almost silently, raised my bare hands to the sky.


End file.
